


When You're Ready

by hato



Series: Untitled Series [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, F/M, M/M, Making Up, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade knows he can't forget, but he wants to forgive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Spoke At His Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.  
>  **Inspired by:** _I'll Be Waiting_ by Adele.  
>  **A/N:** It's been a while since I've written anything, so I decided to try to get back into the groove again. I promise this will end happily because I just can't do sad endings!!!!!

She’s standing in the kitchen.

 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade quietly closes the front door behind him and leans back against it. Staring. At Molly. Standing in the kitchen with her back to him, shoulders slumped beneath her pink jumper. Long hair pulled back with that gaudy green and orange elastic. Silly printed skirt and the stockings with a run on the left heel. One hand fisted on the worktop next to a stack of take-away containers that smell like curry.

 

He clenches his own hand in his coat pocket. Digs short, blunt fingernails into his palm. Flinches at the pain in his knuckles. Still aching, slightly swollen.

 

Distraction. Focus.

 

She turns around and he sees her mobile clutched tightly in her other hand, thumb moving to lock it. Greasy smear across the screen. Molly’s expression is pained.  ‘Just got his text. Warning me.’ Start of a smile. ‘ John probably made him.’ Quickly failing.  She fidgets with the mobile.

 

Greg forces his fingers to uncurl and leave the safety of his pocket. Pushes away from the door. Takes three steps into the flat and stops because he simply has no fucking idea how to go about this. Puts his hands back into his pockets.  ‘ I spoke at his funeral.’

 

‘ I remember.’ Molly chews on her bottom lip. Thumb rubbing circles across the back of her mobile now.

 

‘ Watched them shovel dirt over his coffin.’ Greg grinds his back teeth, ignores the growing ache in his temples. ‘ Folded his obituary with my parents’ and chatted up his headstone once a month and did my damndest to keep an eye on John and this afternoon he walks into my office demanding details on the Adair case.’  He swallows down the vague rush of nausea at the memory.  

 

Molly says nothing. White knuckle grip on the phone.

 

Greg stares hard at the grey kitten embroidered on her jumper. It moves slightly with each breath she takes.  “ Sherlock Holmes is alive.’

 

The kitten remains damnably undisturbed in its gentle rhythm.

 

‘ And you knew.’ Greg manages to drag his gaze back to her face. That lovely face with flushed cheeks and bitten lips and frightened brown eyes staring straight back at him and a distant part of his mind admires the courage in that. The determination in the upward tilt of her chin. The strength in her small frame refusing to fold in on herself in either guilt or regret.  

 

But it’s a very distant line of thought. Easily smothered with the slow-build anger that is beginning to spark bright and hot. Flaring just under his headache. ‘The whole time. You knew.’

 

‘Yes.’ Molly’s voice is steadfast. Quiet, but not cowed.  No rationales. No excuses.

 

Greg swallows again. Pushes his tongue against the roof of his mouth to work up enough spit. ‘All those cancelled plans. The times you ran out midway.’’  He had wondered, occasionally.  If there was someone else. Obviously, there had been someone else, just not the someone else he’d had in mind.  But Greg had dismissed his suspicions as quickly as they appeared because it was Molly. _Molly_ , for fuck’s sake! ‘ When you tossed me out of your bed at arse o’clock in the morning because your mate was having a row with her bloke and needed somewhere to stay... it was all him.’

 

‘Yes.’

 

Greg stares at the grey kitten. Then the cupboard to Molly’s right. Then the floor near the fridge.

 

He knows. He really does. Knows why Molly did it. The people she and Sherlock were protecting.

 

But it’s hard to forget all the bullshit he’s gone through in the past twenty and a half months. The suspension, official inquiries, internal investigations. Sally admitting her mistake, but not even a breath of apology or remorse for the death caused. Anderson distancing himself from Sally, but losing his sharp enthusiasm for his job to the gnawing guilt.  The lingering doubt and suspicion and quickly hushed whispers as he walks through the Yard despite clearing Sherlock’s name and removing most of the tarnish from his own blackened reputation.

 

He knows. But he can’t forget.

 

Each time he saw Molly at the morgue. During the court hearings. Coffees and chats that eventually became tea and films and then late night take-aways and awkward snogging. Laughing and touching at the breakfast table. All that time spent together and nothing. Not just nothing, though, was it? Not merely an omission of the truth, but deliberate misinformation, hiding, lying.

 

Lying.

 

The majority of his marriage to Isabel had been a lie and it left a very bad taste in his mouth for dishonesty in his relationships.

 

Discovering one of his best mates isn’t dead is shock enough. Finding out his girlfriend was involved in the deception and has been misleading him since before they even began dating is a bit much to take all together.

 

Greg can’t forget all that just because he wants to. Just because Molly’s standing across the room from him. Hoping for forgiveness, but steeled for rejection and waiting for him to speak up. ‘ I...’ He swallows and glances up at her face once more. ‘ I have to go.’ And then looks away. He’s angry, he’s hurt, and he can’t stay here. He needs to do something. Take a walk. Get pissed. Go back to work. Anything but stay here and risk ruining his only meaningful relationship in over a decade because his head’s too muddled to react in a mature manner.

 

‘’Kay. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?’

 

Her voice is small. Slightest waver at the end and Greg doesn’t look back. Just nods his head as he turns the door handle. ‘ Yeah. Later.’ _Love you_ , is on the tip of his tongue, affection ready to spill out just as easily as it did that morning before he left for the Yard. It sounds wrong in his head now, even though he knows he should say it. For both their sakes.  He always said it to Isabel, no matter how bad it got, until it got so bad that it was no longer true and that is not the case now. But he still can’t say it.  Instead, he clenches his teeth and steps through into the corridor.

 

Strides across the faded carpeting and refuses to think about how he just shut the door on Molly’s tiny whispered,' _I love you_.'

 

 

_**tbc** _

  
  



	2. Like Sweat and Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is an old hand at losing himself in his work in order to avoid the mess his life has become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.  
>  **Inspired by** : _I'll Be Waiting_ by Adele.

He gets a change of clothes from his own flat that night, but doesn’t stay.

 

Showers in the Met’s locker room and kips on the sofa in his office. Throws himself into the Adair case with a single-minded determination worthy of a resurrected consulting detective.

 

The next two days are a chaotic mess with the whirlwind known as Sherlock Holmes at its center.  False leads, back alley chases, no less than three diplomatic interventions, and a stake-out.

 

Neither Sherlock nor John makes any mention of what occurred with Molly. Though Greg is certain John guesses from similar experience and Sherlock deduces from the color of his biro or whatever.

 

When it’s all said and done, Greg has a visibly shaken Sherlock, a fiercely protective John, and a very dead Colonel Moran.

 

And on the third day, a shitload of paperwork to explain the entire debacle.

 

He sends Sergeant Baynes to the morgue to represent the Met during Moran’s autopsy. Doesn’t want to see Molly.

 

Which is utterly ridiculous since he's been staring a hole through the framed photo on his desk all day. The one of himself and Molly on holiday in Ireland.  One year dating anniversary.  Molly tucked under his arm, tight against his side, giggling behind her hand. Her hair blowing into his face, blurring his wide grin.

 

He remembers she smelled like sweat and honey...

 

Christ, he needs a drink.

 

But not until he can clear out the majority of his inbox so he can actually have tomorrow off.  

 

Then... then he’ll go get pissed. And not think about walking back to his empty flat afterward.

 

Which is also utterly ridiculous. He could go to Molly’s, he usually does after a long case is finished.  Some Italian take-away, a little snogging while they watch Fawlty Towers, finish the night with a good long shag and an equally good long lie-in next morning.

 

Greg misses her. Wants to see her. Wants to talk to her. Touch her.

 

But every time he thinks about it, really pictures it in his mind, he can feel the anger slowly seeping up through the relief and desperate affection. Just like when he confronted her that first time.  He hadn’t planned to show up at her flat, throw a handful of accusations in her face and walk out on her. Hadn’t intended to be so harsh.  But he’d gotten there and couldn’t get his head right and it had all gone to hell as the light in Molly’s eyes grew dimmer and dimmer.

 

And he knows, with a horrid certainty, that it will happen again.  Can imagine the tight ache in his gut swelling into cold fury. The hurt expression on Molly’s face when he eventually begins to pull back, to hesitate, to question.  Suspicions and mistrust.

 

Fuck. Isabel, all over again.

 

Except it’s not. Because Izzy had been fucking around behind his back, disillusioned with life as a Yarder’s wife, unhappy with the reality of his long unpredictable hours, determined to find the right bloke to fit her idea of a proper marriage since he had failed spectacularly.

 

But Molly. Molly had just been trying to help out a friend. To keep them all safe.

 

To keep him safe.  

 

Greg flexes his right hand. Knuckles stiff and sore. Bruising fading into ugly green and yellow.  Makes all the paperwork a bit slow going.

 

It had been so easy with Sherlock.  A moment of shock. A few seconds of dawning realization.  Quick anger and a swift right hook. Then cursing and a shameless embrace and right back to work.

 

He’s still brassed off. Still a bit hurt. Plans to give Sherlock hell about it every chance he gets, but...

 

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckinghellfuck_.

 

It just isn’t the same.

 

Greg slams the biro onto the desk. Takes a deep breath before picking it back up.

 

Later.

  
Later he’ll sift through the mental knots and emotional wreckage and attempt to find a solution to this latest cock up.

 

_**tbc** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who reads, kudos, and comments!!!


	3. It's Worth the Risk, Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night as his local is just what Greg needs. And of course his friends know this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.  
>  **Inspired by** : _I'll Be Waiting_ by Adele.  
>  **A/N** : The promised happy ending for CharlieBravoWhiskey!!!

Greg really isn’t surprised to find John Watson sitting at the corner of the bar of his favorite local when he steps in out of the drizzle, brushing the damp from his hair as he decides whether or not he wants this to happen.  

 

John- amazingly perceptive in his own right- is sitting in plain sight of the entry. All plaid shirt and brown cardigan. Black jacket hung on the back of his barstool.  Pint in hand. Happily watching vintage ruggers highlights on the telly.  

 

Pointedly not watching the front door.  

 

Fully aware of his position within the space. Giving Greg a choice.

 

Acknowledge John and have a drink and some company? Or leave without being seen with the illusion of a graceful retreat?  

 

Greg hangs up his overcoat. Loosens his tie.

 

He’s thirsty and hungry and not eager to go back out into the rain.

* * *

 

John, of course, doesn’t say anything when Greg takes the seat next to him. Just smiles and orders a Newcastle Brown because they aren’t being complicated tonight.

 

Basket of chips.

 

Five baskets of chips. He shares them with John and his cardiologist doesn’t have to know (even though John does give him an obligatory _tsktsk_ ).

 

They watch rugby and then some American baseball until the other patrons whinge loud enough for the bartender to turn to a footie programme.  

 

They don’t talk. About anything. For over an hour.

 

Just chips and bitters and telly.

 

And John’s mobile vibrating every twenty minutes.

 

Greg barely notices the first couple times. John glances at the screen, checks the message, locks it, and returns his attention to the telly.

 

The fourth time the mobile buzzes angrily against the wooden bar, Greg tosses a chip into his mouth and nods toward the phone. ‘You need to be somewhere?’

 

John shakes his head. ‘Nope.’ Checks the message. Quirk of a smile.

 

‘Don’t have to mind me, you know.’ Greg takes a long pull from his glass.  Searches for a crispy chip amongst the mass of greasy potatoes. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate it.’  He chews quietly for a moment, letting the sincerity linger in the noisy atmosphere.

 

Another smile. That warm, understanding smile that Greg is certain won Sherlock’s heart just as much as John’s perfect aim. ‘Not minding you. Just having a drink with my mate.’ John tilts his glass against his mouth, still smiling around the rim.

 

‘Yeah, but...’ And Greg wonders- for the briefest of moments- if he has any right to offer commentary on someone else’s relationship.  Then remembers who he’s talking to. ‘ I can’t blame Sherlock for wanting to have you at home. After everything’s that happened.  Not that I think the git should be keeping you on such a short leash.’

 

John rolls his eyes and slides the mobile across the bar.  

 

Greg leans over to block out the glare of the overhead lamp.  On the screen is a message from Sherlock. Just as he’d suspected.  But instead of the arrogant demand for John to return home or childish whinging about out-of-reach office supplies, there is a simple, _Solution C disposed of in toilet. Fumes non-toxic._  And an image of Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror above the lavatory.  Looking slightly flustered, a bit irate. Holding a loo brush.

 

Greg isn’t entirely certain he knows what he’s looking at. Other than the obvious. ‘Is that his passive-aggressive way of wanting you home to clean the loo?’  He draws his brows together, nose wrinkling.  A very short leash, indeed.

 

John snorts and clumsily slides a finger across the screen. ‘ When have you ever known Sherlock to be passive?’

 

The previous message appears. _Solution A now gelatinous. Results inconclusive._  A picture of Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around a pipette, poking a slimy sludge-colored mass.

 

Message before that. _Will purchase new micro_. Microwave interior completely burnt out, greenish smoke billowing around Sherlock’s profile.

 

Before that. _Top Gear marathon ended. Experiment necessary._  Sherlock’s reflection in the blank telly screen, corner of the kitchen table, already crowded with unidentifiable scraps.

 

_No one believes this tripe, do they?_

 

_Wearing navy blue._

 

_Alphabetical. Nitrogen._

 

Sherlock’s nose and mouth with a piece of toast.  Sherlock’s partial reflection in a shop window.  Sherlock’s black eye, a bit of wild hair, and Bart’s morgue in the background.

 

Further and further back, over the last four days. Disjointed texts. Erratic self portraits.

 

A dozen images of Sherlock’s bare feet propped onto the arm of the sofa and a one word message, _Thinking_ , accompanying each one.

 

Slowly, skating through the images and words, Greg begins to see a pattern emerging. Locations, dates, times.  ‘ He sends you these... when you’re not together.’  He flips through a few more. Grins at the pic of a toilet with, Had to wee, as a caption. ‘ So you don’t worry.’ John gives him a slanted look and Greg amends his words. ‘ So you don’t worry more than usual, that is.’

 

‘Yep.’ John takes the mobile back to his side of the space and rests his hand over it. Protective. Thoughtful. ‘Day before we came to see you at the Yard, he was gone again. I woke up and he was nowhere to be found. Left his phone, Mrs Hudson hadn’t seen him, he’d evaded Mycroft’s cameras, and no one else knew he was alive. I was a bit...’

 

‘Panicked?’ Greg offers. Hint of a knowing smirk.

 

John huffs through his nose. Good natured. ‘A bit, yeah. I was just about to throw caution to the wind and call Molly when he came in through the kitchen window.’

 

Greg nearly snorts his beer through his nose. ‘ The kitchen window?’  He wipes his chin, dribbles wetting his cuff. ‘Silly twat.’  Isn’t nearly as disturbed by the mention of Molly as he feels he should be.

 

‘He’d gone out to smoke.’ John shakes his head. His voice is tinged with a soft sort of affection, but there’s not a trace of it in his expression. ‘Said he didn’t want to wake me and knew I disagreed with the habit, so he snuck out and hid somewhere on the roof where I couldn’t smell it.’ Taps his first two fingers on the blank screen. ‘ Like a bleeding teenager. Had absolutely no idea why I was in such a state when he came back in.’  John continues to tap his fingers. Light and fast. Agitated. ‘ I’d thought... for a bit I’d thought, maybe, I’d gone spare, you know? Like, I’d gotten so desperate, out of my mind lonely, and I’d just dreamt him up. Then I woke up and he was gone.’

 

Greg sips his pint carefully. Turns that particular scenario over and over in his mind. Selects his words with slow deliberation. ‘Was it bad? When he first came back.’ They’d said Sherlock had returned about two weeks before they’d decided to grace Greg with their presence at the Yard. Two weeks seem like such a short time. But Greg is also very familiar with just how long two weeks can seem in the emotional realm. When you’re living on a hair-trigger, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

 

Curiosity and concern. For John and Sherlock. For himself and Molly.

 

John looks up. Surprised. As though he’d forgotten Greg was still there, listening. His pint is drained before he answers and Greg almost regrets asking. Barely hidden exhaustion and pain in John’s eyes, the quiet voice. The clenched hand over the mobile. ‘ I honestly thought I was hallucinating, having a heart attack, a stroke, something. I thought I was dying, because there was no other reason for this goddamn ghost to be in my lounge. And I... he, uh... there was this stupid text and... anyway, it was really him. I couldn’t even let go of him that first night. I was angry with him, furious. But I was more afraid of him disappearing again, so I just held on. ‘

 

John shifts in his seat, fingers back to tapping. ‘ So, no, it wasn’t that bad the first night. Mostly because it didn’t seem real and when it did start sinking in that he was really alive and back at home the relief still outweighed the anger. Just enough.’

 

Greg swallows. Thick throat. Tightly clamped mouth. He rubs his finger across the wet side of his glass. He doesn’t even like to imagine it. That kind of betrayal. The tension, the anxiety.

 

‘And then he left. Didn’t think it was important to tell me, didn’t bother leaving a note or anything.  Thought he’d just pop out and pop back in and everything would just be tickety-boo. Like before.’  John takes his hand from the mobile. Pushes it across the bar, back to its original position. ‘ And it was like my nerves just snapped- I swear I actually heard this little popping sound go off in my head- and I sucker punched him. Right in the eye.’ He flexes his left hand. And sighs heavily.  

 

‘... thought that might’ve been your handiwork.’ Greg goes for levity. No matter how brief. They both need the respite.

 

It works. John glances at him, again, a small grin breaking out. ‘ The one you landed on his jaw matched it pretty well, I think.’ He chuckles. Some of the tension visibly leaves his face, lines smoothing. Another sigh, but this one is more relaxed. Accepting. A deep breath out and in. ‘ It turned into this complete disaster of a row. We were both shouting. A lot of things that we needed to get out between us and some things that were probably better left for some other time. Christ, Mrs Hudson came up to make sure we weren’t actually murdering one another and the little neighbor girl followed her up and started arguing with Sherlock about beans and biscuits or some such nonsense and Gladstone apparently took her side and actually turned on Sherlock and I had to send both ankle-biters downstairs with Mrs Hudson before we could continue hurling obscenities and accusations at each other until I broke down in the most embarrassing way and hid in my room until we left for the Yard.’  Swipes a hand through his hair, down over his face. Lets it fall back onto the bar beside his mobile. Thumb resting on the lightly scratched surface.

 

Greg watches as John composes himself. Swirls the beer around in the bottom of his glass and raises his hand to order another round.  Thinks about how hard this has to be for John. And how long it will last before John won’t have to make a conscious effort to move past it.

 

They remain silent, even after the bartender sets new pints in front of them and wanders back to her other patrons.

 

John’s mobile buzzes.

 

From this angle, Greg can just make out the image of Sherlock’s bare feet on the sofa. He can’t read the message from here, but assumes it is the _Thinking_ from before. He smiles and picks up his fresh drink.

 

John curls his free hand around the glass and stares at the telly. The footie programme is rolling through the end credits. ‘ I know you already know this, but, it was hard on Molly, as well.’  Glance flickering over Greg’s face. Gauging his reaction. ‘ Nearly as hard as it was for Sherlock, I imagine, and more difficult in some ways. There were very few people Sherlock could contact while he was gallivanting about, but he was able to reach out when he needed.  Poor Molly, she had no one to talk to, unless Sherlock was raiding her fridge at that very moment and I doubt the twat was a very attentive listener.’

 

Greg shrugs one shoulder, stares into the foam bubbling happily in his glass. Of course, he knows. Being silent for that long, holding onto that kind of secret.  It’s draining. Emotionally and physically. ‘ But-’

 

‘- She should have trusted you. I know, I really do, Greg.’ John pauses to sip his beer. Sets it back carefully into its ring of condensation.

 

‘ Yeah, she should’ve. _He_ should have.’ Greg gives John a pointed look. Then scrubs his hand through his short hair. Because he needs to look as disheveled as he feels. ‘ I understand why. I even fucking agree with it on a practical/professional level.’  He shrugs again.

 

John pulls a few chips from the bottom of the greasy basket. ‘ You just don’t know how to stop being resentful and bitter about it.’ Chews quietly on the ends.

 

A defeated sigh, nod of the head. Greg takes the last few chips and crams them into his mouth. Short distance from getting his knickers in a twist all over again.

 

‘Greg?’

 

‘Yeah.’

 

‘It’s worth the risk, right? Dealing with all this shit? Not giving up on them?’

 

Greg takes in John’s face. There’s uncertainty there. Insecurity. Vulnerability and fear. But Greg sees determination, as well. Stubbornness. And that angry defiance bolstering the hope and love underneath it all.

 

The exact same expression Molly wore the last time Greg spoke to her.

 

‘Damn right, it is.’ Greg lifts his glass and grins. ‘Cheers, mate.’

 

John does the same. ‘ Cheers.’

 

The clink of their glasses is lost in the general din of the bar.

 

‘Now. Go home before Sherlock ruins anymore small appliances.’ Greg lowers his glass and stands, reaching for his wallet.  Cuts off John’s move for his own wallet with a very firm, ‘ I got it.’

 

Bill settled. Coats tugged on. Idle chat about cases and the new Thai place near Bart’s.

 

Outside, Greg tilts his head toward parking garage around the corner. ‘Give you a lift?’ The rain has stopped, but it’s a fair bit from Baker Street.

 

Before John can utter a single syllable, a sleek black car pulls up to the kerb. And waits. Ominously.  

 

Greg raises a brow.

 

John actually stomps his feet like an irritated toddler. ‘ Bleeding hell! I was on my way!’ The car door opens and a very fit young woman gives them a distracted smile. Her fingers busy with a smartphone that looks more high-tech than Greg’s entire office and not paying a bit of attention to the aggravated man outside the car.  

 

John thins his lips. Hangs his head in resignation. Shoulders slumping in defeat. The perfect picture of strained patience.

 

Greg didn’t realize until now, just how much he missed this John Watson.

 

‘You okay?’ John turns away from the luxury vehicle. All concern and friendly affection. Same old John Watson.

 

Greg sticks his hands in his coat pockets. Gives the pavement a good looking at before breaking into a cautious smile. ‘Yeah. Brilliant.’ Rolls his eyes and snorts.

 

And grabs John up in a hug before he can be embarrassed about either the gesture or the public location.

 

Lots of blokes hug outside of pubs, right?

 

It’s very short-lived. John squeezes him with equal ferocity, slapping his back twice before they break apart. Grinning. Bit sheepish. In an infinitely better mood.

 

‘Laters.’ Greg nods turns on heel. It’s late. He’ll go home and get a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow-

 

‘ She’s still at Bart’s!’

 

Greg looks over his shoulder. John is still standing on the kerb, one hand gripping the top of the door. Mobile in the other. Laughing. ‘What?’

 

‘Sherlock says if you hurry, you’ll catch her before she leaves.’ John waves the mobile in the air.  

 

Greg stares for a moment. Takes a deep breath. ‘Right. Right!’ He begins to jog backwards.’Thanks, John!’  He turns around, nearly tripping over his own feet, and races toward the car park.  

 

He’s not going to cock this up again.

* * *

 

Sherlock was right, of course. Jammy bastard.

 

Greg pulls up to the kerb just as Molly exits the main doors. Security guard tipping his hat to her on the way out.  Greg parks the car in the fire lane- to hell with the consequences- and jumps out. Regrets the beer and chips with every quick step. ‘Molly!’ Stomach churning. Nervousness and bad diet.

 

She turns around and Greg barely notices her startled expression, hand reaching for the PAVA spray he insists on her carrying, the adrenaline induced catch in her breathing.

 

Instead, Greg focuses on her fly-away hair, the hideous pink muffler flapping over her coat, the twitch of her mouth and the instant wetness in her eyes.

 

Doesn’t hesitate for even a split second.

 

He practically slams into her, arms pulling her in tight to his chest. Greg pushes his face into her loose hair and breathes in. Lab chemicals. Cheap strawberry shampoo.

 

He’s missed this. So fucking much.

 

Greg feels Molly wiggling against him. For a moment, he’s scared shitless that she’s pushing away. Rejecting him. And he can’t really say anything about that, can he? Not after what he did.

 

But Molly’s arms simply work themselves free of his crushing hold and circle around his neck. Her face buried against his shoulder.  Clinging tightly. Sobbing.

 

‘Can I take you home?’ Greg swallows after the words. His voice is rough, back of his throat burning.

 

Molly doesn’t say anything. Only moves her head against his chest. And squeezes him even tighter. So Greg kisses her temple. Over and over and over. Until she tilts her face up and returns the kisses with sniffly enthusiasm.

 

Evenutally they get their breath back and unfold from each other just enough to walk back to his illegally parked car.

 

 

And John was right, too. The anger isn’t gone. The betrayal lingers just beneath the relief and desperation.

 

 

But it’s worth it. Worth working through the fear and getting past the hurt and moving on.

 

Worth having Molly in his life for a very long time.

* * *

 

**The End :)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many many MANY thanks!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos, and comments!!!


End file.
